


Practice Makes Perfect

by illfit



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-15
Updated: 2018-01-15
Packaged: 2019-03-04 13:41:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13365906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illfit/pseuds/illfit
Summary: Love is hard. Try punching something first.





	Practice Makes Perfect

There was an unspoken arrangement. It started in Hightown, tucked behind pillars and nearly invisible under a moonless sky, then progressed to quick trips to Fenris’s mansion and a refined skill of moving through the city streets silently at night. Always, it stayed under the covers, tucked away and locked behind doors, unspoken and unheard.

Even as their lips crashed together, gasping breaths and broken moans, not once did they speak of this. Neither asked, but both received. Not once was there a plea of _please_ , of _more_ , of _I want…_

You get what you get, as the saying goes.

What there was, however, were touches. Frenzied brushes of fingertips, the sticky slide of skin against skin, nails biting into flesh if one dare move too far away.

Their movements are smooth; they’ve done this before. Each upwards stroke, each bob of their head, each graze of teeth against skin is practiced, but never repeated. There’s always a new component, a new addition to the agreement.

Except Anders himself is a constant change; a fluctuation between fact and fiction. Fenris didn’t know he previously had lived in the same eat-fight-sleep cycle each day until Anders had taken the leap and pressed him against the cool marble of the pillar and made him choke on whatever words he held on his tongue with each stroke of his tongue against his dick. Fenris had repaid the debt in turn, and Anders took his leave with lips swollen from biting back moans. And thus, it began.

The next time, there had been marks left everywhere, until Anders’s chest was more black and blue than pale and pink. After that came actual kissing, the next was cleaning up their messes. Then came the magic, which Fenris swallowed much the same way Anders swallowed his moans the first time. It progressed steadily from there.

This time though, there had been nothing new so far. They touched, they fucked, they cooled down, all without a word between them. Anders is the first to stand, grabbing his trousers off the floor and lacing them back up, tossing Fenris’s own clothes at him when he finishes. Fenris simply watches, the clothes in his lap quickly forgotten as Anders redresses. It feels odd to watch this, as though the pure intimateness of it is too taboo for Fenris. But nevertheless he does, transfixed by the delicate way Anders covers himself again, every attention to detail, down to his hair. Fenris wonders if his hair will be ruined by someone else, by Hawke or Isabela or someone in the Blooming Rose. The pure possessiveness that Fenris finds himself feeling shocks him, and he takes a final glance before tearing his gaze away.

Once he’s fully clothed, Anders looks at Fenris. They’re close enough to touch, and Fenris can feel the faint heat of Anders’s body. There’s something in his gaze that Fenris can’t quite pinpoint, some look of sorrow or longing, maybe? Fenris looks away, down towards the soft skin of Anders’s wrist. How easy it would be to reach out, grab hold and pull him in, ruin his damn perfect hair.

But that goes against the agreement, as silent as it is, and so Fenris keeps to himself, simply watching Anders leave with nothing more than a brief thought of what could have been.

 

Life goes on. Fenris forces his feelings down with bitter ale at the Hanged Man and pretends not to notice how Anders’s hand wraps around Isabela’s waist in their clumsy, alcohol-slogged dance; pretends he doesn’t mind how close Anders is to everyone but _him_ ; pretends their relationship will be nothing more than enemies; pretends he doesn't feel more for Anders than their public back-and-forth banter or private agreement.

The night goes quickly once everyone sits back down. Merrill fell asleep long ago, face down on the table and immune to the world around her, even when Isabela turns her around and turns her vallaslin into childish pictures with a piece of charcoal she pawned from another patron. Varric is busy attempting to kindle the flames of Aveline’s budding relationship with Donnic, although there’s little progress being made as Aveline continues to bring up her idea of flowers, and Varric continues to shoot it down. Even Hawke and Carver are engrossed in an arm-wrestling competition which, Fenris has to admit, is actually rather interesting given they’ve been tied for a solid minute and both their faces are turning red. Anders collapses on the bench next to Fenris with yet another full glass of ale just as Carver points vaguely to the side and slams down Hawke’s hand in their momentary loss of focus. In a desperate attempt to escape Anders’s ridiculously alluring heat at his side, Fenris challenges Carver to another wrestle. This match lasts even longer and draws the attention of nearly everyone in the pub, all hooting and hollering yet for no one in particular, simply for the glory of being involved. Despite this, Anders’s voice somehow pierces through, standing out among the crowd of drunkards.

The wrestle ends soon after, a victorious Carver letting out a sound that’s a cross between a howl and a screech as the crowd nearly dogpiles him. No one is paying attention but Fenris still excuses himself from the table. He pushes his way through the crowd and outside, taking a deep breath of clean air. It’s still the polluted Lowtown air Fenris has come to adjust to, but it’s leagues better than the musky interior of The Hanged Man.

Sometime later, Fenris finds himself with company, though not exactly who he anticipated or, much less, wanted. Yet he still can’t help but lean slightly towards Anders’s slim frame as he rests against the wall next to Fenris, still can’t help his ache to feel Anders’s nimble fingers in his own hair instead.

Anders opens his mouth, speaks, but it’s distant and about as confusing as trying to see the shore through heavy fog. Fenris stares at him, eyebrows knitted together, unprepared for when Anders leans in close and says it into his ear.

“Had enough of the party?” he asks. A simple question, polite and without any undertone, yet Fenris still can’t form the words to answer. He nods. “Want to go home?” This time, there is undertone. The way 'home' forms on his lips, so comforting, so welcoming, it shouldn’t be allowed. He’s never asked this before, never called the Clinic home, or anywhere else for that matter, so where could— _oh_.

“The mansion?”

Anders nods. His cheeks are flushed pink and his eyes are lazy with alcohol and yet he’s completely sincere. Fenris can barely mutter an okay before Anders is erupting in a smile, grabbing Fenris’s hand and tugging him towards Hightown, towards _home_.

He’s drunk, Fenris knows, completely wasted. But the way he smiles when Fenris says something, laughs at a deadpanned joke, tightens his grip every time another person walks by, there’s no way it can’t _not_ be true.

They reach the mansion, and instead of the normal irritation that comes with someone violating his personal space, Fenris is, of all things, relieved that Anders is there. Even as Anders makes his way up to the bedroom before Fenris has barely shut the door, even when Fenris finds Anders in bed, passed out with his trousers halfway down his legs; not once do the regular red lights go off in his mind. More so, he smiles at the sight. Anders is with him, in his bed, in his home, staying by choice. Given it’s an incredibly dubious choice, but made by himself nonetheless. Fenris helps pull his trousers the rest of the way off and does the same with any clothes that look uncomfortable, then repositions Anders so he’s properly in bed and climbs in beside him.

Fenris has never been one to find happiness in the comfort of others. Danarius had ruined that for him, and as such he never reopened himself to the thought. Seeing Anders in the morning has him reconsidering. The way the sunlight cascades over the bare skin of his shoulder and glints in his hair, the soft snores that fill the otherwise quiet air, the look of absolute peace in a world that has done nothing but held his dreams hostage and cause him despair.

“You are too good for this world.”

The words almost appear of their own accord, but the way Fenris’s lips formed around them clings to his memory like honey. There's an aching want inside him, telling him to say it again, more, sweeter.

Their suffering is not the same, but Anders has felt the anguish he has. They have both been slaves to a corrupted power greater than themselves, and fought their entire lives against it to no avail. Their respective corruptions remain the same. They both still suffer under heavy stresses, and somehow Fenris finds comfort in that.

The snores fades out; Fenris closes his eyes and pretends he hasn’t woken yet.

“So are you.”

Fenris’s breath catches. Is this a new amendment to their arrangement, or something solely between friends? Fenris rolls onto his other side and ignores the fluttering of his stomach.

 

Whatever was between them, friendship, agreement, or what-have-you, stumbles after that. As Fenris feigned sleep, Anders rose and left as quickly as he had come, and they didn’t speak for a week.

It’s not that uncommon, actually. Hawke tries to switch up who they call on for help and even then Anders and Fenris are very rarely on the same mission, and with no other reason for their paths to cross they simply don't. This time there’s an emptiness, a growing hole within Fenris that he can’t ignore even while occupying himself, and he's lost as to what bothers him more— the actual situation or the fact that he's bothered by it. 

When they finally do speak, an emotionless and brief exchange while on a mission, the gaping hole in Fenris relaxes slightly, collapses just enough for him to look at Anders without the overwhelming urge to touch him.

And so it goes. For three months there’s nothing between them but what’s needed for a functioning team. When Hawke isn’t calling on them, there’s silence unless one has wandered too far from home.

Until one day, it stops. In a clash of fists they meet, petty banter morphing into razor-sharp words that tear at Fenris’s conscience until he’s a bloody, breathless mess. Still, Anders continues on, slamming Fenris against a nearby wall and practically going for his jugular with the next words he spits out.

“I thought I could trust you!” He accentuates it by pushing him harder against the wall, the bones of Fenris’s spine digging painfully into the wood, “You turned your back on me.”

Once the banter had turned physical, Hawke had ordered the others home and loudly commented that they’d be outside and to shout if needed. Not once does the thought cross his mind to call for help— not only for the sake of his dignity but that Anders is here. It may not be the way he wants but he’s _there_ nonetheless.

Anger boils in Fenris’s veins, spills over when Anders scoffs and lets go, begins to walk away.

“So you’ll walk away? Just like that? I thought better of you.” Fenris can't help it. It's easier to hate than to love.

Anders spins on him, face red with fury and fists balled as he shouts, “You won’t let me love you! You didn’t even give it a chance! How am I supposed to give you a chance when _you_ aren’t trying in the first place?”

“You were the one who never wanted to talk about this! You were perfectly content to use me for your own physical needs, then left when the day was still young. I did not try because there was nothing there in the first place.”

Anders draws himself back, and if anything it serves only to make Fenris’s anger grow; even now he still finds Anders absolutely regal, from the way he wears his clothes to his damn perfect hair. His breath still catches when Anders asks, “Then why did you say what you did?”

His words are so genuine, so pleading, and Fenris has no idea what to do with them. Never has someone shown so much care for him, and as shameful as it is to admit, he has no idea what to do with it. Anders continues on, asking questions about that morning that Fenris doesn’t have the answers to, moving closer, pressing in, words becoming jumbled in Fenris’s mind as the emotions blur and his thoughts race, forcing Fenris to look his problems dead in the eye and _do something_.

He can't.

With a cry he spins around, driving his fist into the wall hard enough for it to split, wood cracking and bending under the force much the same way the bones in Fenris’s hand do. Anders watches helplessly as he pulls back and collapses, closing his eyes and letting his head fall forward. No one has ever seen Fenris so weak. Not even Hawke, and most definitely not Anders. To see him so… _pitiful_ makes something switch in Anders. The anger oozes out like poison, painfully slow as he watches Fenris stubbornly wipe away the tears budding at the corners of his eyes. Then, almost without thought, he’s pulling Fenris to his feet.

“Come,” he tells him as Fenris reluctantly stands, “sit.” He motions to a stool, which Fenris eyes warily, as though it may hurt him. Eventually he does, watching Anders carefully.

“What do you want?” he asks, but they both know neither are angry anymore, and the question comes out with more poorly-masked hurt than anything.

“I want to heal your hand.” Fenris nods slowly, holds up his hand after a moment’s hesitation. Fenris grew accustomed to magic's pull on his lyrium when around Anders, and it dawns on him that he learned more than the fleeting pleasures life may hold. It takes two to make a change, but Fenris thinks that there’s no one else he would rather have made that change with, no one else that he’d so much as accept the thought of such a thing.

And yet here he is, letting Anders heal his hand without snarling or biting, ignoring the pull on his lyrium and the memories that claw at his throat.

“I…” Fenris starts, bites his lip, rethinks.

Anders brushes his fingers over Fenris’s knuckles and assures, “It’s okay,” without looking away from his hand.

“No,” Fenris tries again, grabbing Anders’s wrist despite the pain of his hand not being fully healed. He needs him to stay and listen. “I am sorry for acting in the way I did.”

This time Anders looks at him, and not in the way Fenris expected. It’s kindly, accepting. Hurt is there too, yes, but it’s presented with the trust that Fenris won’t make it worse. He tries his damndest not to.

“I understand,” Anders says, and Fenris knows it’s true. “It’s okay.” Fenris releases his wrist, relaxing slightly and letting Anders continue healing. His eyebrows twitch and he bites the inside of his cheek as the bones reset themselves, but doesn’t take his eyes off Anders once.

Soon enough, he’s finished, and they sit a moment in silence. Fenris looks around the room, towards the door that Hawke is just outside of.

“We should be going,” he says, voice too soft for his own liking. This time it’s Anders grabbing Fenris’s wrist. The grip is loose and both know Fenris could easily break through if he wanted, but Fenris still stays on his stool, looking at Anders expectantly.

Anders meets his gaze; says, “I won’t leave until I know where we stand.”

“Where do you want us to?” Fenris asks.

The question is innocent but Anders looks as though he’d been asked his purpose in life. His grip on Fenris’s hand tightens, relaxes, then tightens again as he licks his lips and opens his mouth to speak, knows if he speaks now everything will come pouring out but also knows sometimes that’s good, sometimes that’s what saves you, and with a final breath he says it:

“I love you.”

He’s met with silence. His heart skips a beat before beginning to thud full-force against his ribcage, mouth going dry when he so much as considers looking to see what Fenris is doing.

 _You don’t get much of anywhere being afraid_ , he thinks, _besides, Fenris’s hand hasn’t moved yet and that must count for something_.

Before he moves though, Fenris’s free hand comes up to rest against Anders’s chest, right over his pounding heart. When Anders finally looks up, Fenris has a soft look in his eye, a more vulnerable expression than he thinks he’s ever seen.

“I couldn’t imagine being without you,” Fenris whispers, “and were I to choose, I would choose for us not to part ways.”

Anders smiles, slowly at first, but then rapidly until he’s grinning enough to make his cheeks hurt as he pulls Fenris into a hug. Fenris has never particularly considered himself one to enjoy being touched— in fact he generally found it rather uncomfortable and undesirable, but he’s also found most things change when around Anders. He’s not entirely sure if it’s a fear of Anders leaving or a way to make Anders understand his love, but he doesn’t mind touching Anders except on the worst of days, and even seeks it out occasionally.

So he hugs Anders back, knots his hands in the fabric of his robe and wonders how he fell in love with this idiot of a mage, then decides he doesn’t care; simply rejoices that it happened.

 

From there on, their arrangement is in the light, loud and spoken. It may not be boisterously loud, but the possessive way Anders’s hand curls around Fenris’s waist after a night of revelry and Fenris’s worried hovering when Anders receives a battle injury is unmistakable. The city knows they are together, for better or for worse. In that aspect their luck thankfully stays gold, allowing them to be with each other without pain. Even now, as Fenris watches Anders slip out of bed, completely nude, for a midnight bathroom stop, he thanks whatever responsible that _he’s_ the one to witness it.

There’s very few things he’d rather bear witness to, if at all. So when Anders returns, yawning and scratching his chest, Fenris glances at the delicate skin of his wrist and doesn’t hesitate to reach out, reassured by the fact that he is the only one able to do this to him.

Anders stops, sleep fogging his mind, but Fenris can’t miss the way his eyes light up when their gazes meet. Fenris tugs softly, harder when Anders, like the stubborn asshole he is, stays put.

And then Anders is coming down, tumbling into bed on top of Fenris with a loud, clear laugh, and their lips are meeting in a sleep-soft way that makes Fenris’s heart ache. Anders’s hand comes up to rest over his heart, and he leans down to kiss the hollow of where his collarbones meet and chuckles when Fenris’s heart skips, aches more.

His laugh is warm, ringing pleasantly in the quiet night, and when Anders pulls back so he’s sitting up, Fenris arches up a moment to keep the touch between them. This time, Fenris says it.

“Please, stay.”

The mood shifts, the chuckle fades from every corner of the room until they’re left staring at each other with nothing between them but nighttime and love.

Fenris reaches up, fingers outstretched. “May I?”

Anders leans forward slightly, presses his hand harder against the strong, proud thud of Fenris’s heart. “Anything you want,” he whispers, “anything at all. Just... touch me.”

So Fenris does, finding entirely too much satisfaction in ruining his damn perfect hair, uses it to pull him down into a kiss that’s more tongue and teeth than anything else.

“Anything,” Fenris repeats against Anders’s lips. His nails run along his back, pulling him closer with the relief that _he_ is the only one who can do this, that he’s the only one Anders will _let_ do this.

The kiss breaks with a shared gasp and Anders takes a deep breath, whispers, “I love you,” like it’s just something you say in casual conversation, like he has no idea how much it means. Suddenly, Fenris feels very small, too vulnerable to be this close to Anders so he pushes himself back. “Do not lie to me.”

“I’m not,” Anders tells him, but the disbelief is still clear. He cradles Fenris’s face in his hands and looks him in the eye when he promises, “I love you.” Fenris’s heart flutters, hides it by leaning forward and pressing their lips together in a gentle kiss.

Later in the night, when they lie in bed side by side, Fenris can’t help but think about Anders and what he’s said. _I love you_. The thought alone makes his fingers curl around Anders’s hand. Anders squeezes in return, turns toward him and tucks his head in the crook of Fenris’s neck, not saying a word. Fenris loops their legs together and thinks a response he may never be able to say aloud; hopes Anders knows it anyway.

From the way Anders brushes his lips over the pulse in Fenris’s neck and lets out a relaxed sigh, he does.


End file.
